A promise of misfortune.

Every time I think back to that year, it feels like torture.

Starting my own company wasn't easy. First, I had to find ways to keep it a secret from my agency and my mother. I had to seek new business opportunities without my current partners knowing, all while maintaining my creative rhythm. I often struggled with sleep, though not because of the exhaustion from traveling. The urgency of independence overshadowed everything else, leaving me no choice but to devote all my energy to work.

Once again, Ye Xi and I found ourselves in a long-distance relationship. He seemed busy too—our phone calls hadn't lasted more than ten minutes in months.

By the end of the year, my company was finally taking shape. The first project we secured was a collaboration with a mainland TV station for their New Year's Eve concert. Naturally, I had no idea about the details of Ye Xi's New Year's Eve performance.

My desire for him gradually dulled under the weight of the relentless demands of the world. Beijing at year's end was the same as always—except now, there was someone whose heart I had completely broken.

When A Long called, I was backstage at a New Year's Eve event in Nanjing, waiting for my turn.

"Did you know? Ye Xi confessed to you during his performance."

"What? What did he say?"

"I thought you knew. Didn't you two plan this? He sang your song, your photos together were displayed on the big screen, and the stage was covered in red roses. Are you coming out on stage too?"

Before he could finish, I cut him off.

"I won't. It's not the right time yet. I have to go on stage now—we'll talk later." I hung up.

Ye Xi's lonely silhouette flickered in my mind as the call ended. I ached for him, and I ached for myself. Two tears slipped away, carrying with them a line of poetry—along with my resolve.

I murmured to myself:"They walk toward the extinguished light to return the gems.A new mystery hums within your bones.Reveal your reasonable strangeness."

Sweetness and danger flashed through my mind—memories of us, moments when we ran between the two. A thread-thin red line connected them, trembling with our breath. That trembling made me feel real—like I had the power to transcend fate.

I dialed Zhang Hongsheng.

"I want to come out," I said, though another voice inside me whispered: Not now. You can't pave the way for someone else.

"Calm down. If you've already made up your mind, why are you calling me?"

"I... I'm just informing you." I hesitated.

"Oh, okay. But you must have thought about the consequences—your fans, your endorsements, the breach-of-contract penalties. If you're sure, then go ahead and say whatever you want on stage."

"..."

"Nothing else? I have a meeting to get to."

"Wait."

"What?"

"Why did you come out back then?"

"Because I could afford to." He hung up.

"Feng, it's your turn to go on stage." The makeup artist came over to touch up my makeup. "You must be exhausted—you're sweating so much your foundation is smudged. Let me put on some setting powder for you."

The stage director urged from the side, "It's almost time. Hurry up and go."

The moment I stepped beyond the curtain, I reacted like Pavlov's dog to the sound of a bell—I slipped into another role. My smile concealed my tears. Even though my eyes still shimmered with them, the words that left my mouth were Happy New Year and other festive pleasantries.

The audience gazed up with hopeful eyes, yearning for the promise of a new year. But what did New Year mean to me?

A love that couldn't be.A star I couldn't reach.A boy who clung to hope, only to lose in the final moment, drowning in melancholy.

That boy fell off a cliff and died. What was reborn was a "mature" man.

In this society, we are not allowed to be ourselves. Those who pushed Ye Xi forward—how many of them truly had his best interests at heart?

I once read this:

"To the philosopher, the model person is not one who strives to discover their true self, their secrets, or their hidden 'authenticity.' Instead, it is one who seeks to invent themselves, free from the constraints of traditional morality. And among all these moral constraints, the most infuriating is perhaps the obligation to confess. Besides, if one is truly honest with oneself, there is no obligation to explain to others."

I could only smile and let it go. That was my only choice.

My Ye Xi—he was still that little boy, desperately seeking a response. His clumsy yet passionate confession was pure, so pure it was both moving and dangerous.

More than anything, he had stripped away his artist's veil of mystery, craving an answer from the world—whether it be blessings or curses. For him, it was vulnerability, recklessness, and, at the same time, a kind of pride.

How much love would it take to protect the heart of a boy who shines so brazenly?How strong would one have to be to shield him from both cold arrows and sugar-coated bullets?

Tears surged again, carried by the noise my fingertips created. In my trembling voice, I heard a kind of heartache I had never felt before. His stubborn yet fragile heart—I couldn't protect it, not in this moment.

"I take flight, but you are falling."

I sang, tilting my head back to take a breath, just to stop the tears from falling, to keep them from being caught on camera.

It wasn't that I couldn't afford it. It was just that the love I had imagined would remain safe and hidden in the shadows until the day arrived—when I could take him away, far away. Until we were strong enough to withstand both raging storms and quiet days. Until we could savor both the thrill of passion and the dullness of the ordinary.

"Your tears fall like a torrential rain, shattered on the ground, clear in my heart."

That year, when I first heard him play Raindrop, it was as transparent as a mirror.

I reached the final lyrics:

"There's so much you don't know."

Why did I harden my heart? Because I loved him—and feared that love would be torn apart by countless hands.

The encore ended. The camera operators must have noticed my lapse in composure. Several angles stopped filming, redirecting the shots back to the host.

I stepped backstage, grabbed a bottle of water, and poured it over my head. The makeup artist rushed in, fixing me up before the host could finish their next line.

"It's your turn." A Long patted my shoulder.

I couldn't speak.

Taking small, careful steps, I walked toward the stage.

"Yan Feng, which of your songs would you like to dedicate to our audience and their loved ones as a New Year's blessing?"

"A song I wrote this year—Falling Leaves Return to Their Roots. I hope that in the years to come, you'll always have someone by your side."

At the last moment, I changed the lyrics, embedding his name as an acrostic within the song. This was the greatest indulgence I could allow myself.

That night was colder than a Rochester winter. There was no frost, no snow, yet it felt like a blizzard had descended, obscuring everything—even his shadow.

I drifted through the night in a daze. The ceiling of the luxury hotel was both familiar and strange. I had thought I could finally rest for a few days after New Year's. But one phone call led me to make the worst decision of my life.

"Grandma isn't doing well. You need to come back to Taipei immediately."

The earliest flight was at 4 AM. I left my luggage for A Long to pack and flew back to Taipei alone.

"She was stable just a few days ago—how did it get so bad so suddenly?" I asked my mother as soon as I landed at Nanjing Airport.

"She heard some rumors. About you."

"..."

"Even though her body is failing, she's still aware of everything. A few days ago, Uncle Bai and Jingrui came to visit. She held Jingrui's hand and talked to her a lot about you."

"..."

Mom continued.

"Your grandmother hopes that you two can get along well."

"..."

"At the very least, you could pretend for a while. Jingrui is a good girl—she visits every few days. I think she might be at the age where she's looking for stability."

"Mom, it's not like that. It's a different time now."

"Honestly, we think your brother and Jingrui would've been a better match. If he hadn't met Sharon back then, Jingrui wouldn't have ended up the way she did."

"..."

I didn't want to say anything more. I would never fully understand how the turmoil of the last century had shaped them—how it had made them so pragmatic about everything, even faith. My mother spent her days praying for God's blessings, but it seemed like what she truly worshiped was security and order.

But when I thought about pragmatism, wasn't I the same?

The truth was, I was never an artist. I could never completely disregard moral constraints.

I scoffed at myself.

Hadn't I fallen for Ye Xi precisely because he embodied everything I couldn't?

Artistry, recklessness, and—most importantly—freedom and a pure heart.

These were all things I had longed for but could never truly possess. I had foolishly believed that by being with him, I could claim them for myself.

But love isn't some magic spell that fuses two separate beings into one.

From beginning to end, I have always been an ordinary man, bound by the weight of the world.

At this moment—my independent company, Ye Xi's confession, my grandmother's critical condition, and countless wolves watching my every move.

"Let's talk when I get back to Taipei." I told my mother. I just wanted some time for myself.

On the plane, I flipped to the last page of the book I was reading:

"We hear the echoes of lament from the first volume of the philosopher's work: 'In joy or in pain, one will confess things to oneself that they would never confess to another, and for this, they will write books.' The 'obligation to truth' seems to be an unavoidable fate for philosophers. Only when a philosopher is on the verge of death does he laugh wildly, turning into silent dust—no longer speaking, no longer listening, no longer searching, no longer bound."

Even if a philosopher spends his entire life madly pursuing what he believes to be truth, he is never truly exempt from consequence.

If one does not confess, one can simply exist as oneself, but at the cost of unbearable solitude.If one does confess, how can they remain themselves under the weight of others' voices?

My eyes welled with tears.

All our lives, we will always be burdened by the pull of freedom and the weight of loneliness.

And yet, my grandmother loved me more than anyone.

That Bai Jingrui agreed to this arrangement surprised me. But I didn't question it too much—perhaps making a public statement was the best course of action at the time.

Ye Xi would understand. This wouldn't change the essence of our love.

Even if it hurt him, I wasn't worried.

How many times had I wronged him before? And yet, he had always forgiven me.

When I wasn't there, he had always found ways to distract himself from loneliness. That never bothered me.

I had always believed that he knew—we were each other's only.

This time, Bai Jingrui and I were innocent.

He would know that. He had to know.

I firmly believed that no matter what we went through, it would only deepen our love. These hardships were merely trials—proof that the more we suffered, the deeper our love ran.

At seven in the morning, I arrived at the hospital. The fluorescent lights cast a cold glow over the halls. Nurses in white uniforms moved noiselessly, their steps so light it was as if they were ferrying souls away. Exhaustion blurred the edges of my consciousness—I felt like I was floating outside my own body.

At the end of the corridor, I pushed open the double doors. The air inside was thick with sorrow. It was the first day of the new year, yet not a single smile could be found.

Kai and De stood by the bed. My father was outside in the hallway, speaking to the doctor for what felt like an eternity. My mother sat in the corner, silently wiping her tears.

I slowed my steps and gently hooked my finger around my grandmother's hand.

She let out a faint sound. "Feng'er, you're here?"

"It's me." I leaned close to her ear.

"I don't believe what they're saying." She smiled weakly.

"It's all nonsense." I smiled too.

"Jingrui is coming this afternoon," my mother said, standing up.

"Let me see my good granddaughter-in-law one last time before I go," my grandmother exhaled softly.

I asked Lijuan to draft the public statement for me. When she sent it back, I hesitated for a long time.

It was Bai Jingrui who pressed the send button.

She told me she was carrying out a self-destructive experiment—proving her father right, proving that she would never find happiness.

We exchanged a look, one of unwavering resolve. It was not the gaze of lovers vowing eternal happiness. It was the opposite.

We were certain—there would be no happiness for us.

That was a promise.

A promise to myself.

A promise to her.

And above all, a promise to Ye Xi.